


mothlight

by hydrangeamaiden



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Bugs & Insects, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Found Family, Giant Spiders, Other, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Spiders, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden
Summary: Everything aside, it really is a beautiful day. The sky starts eggshell blue at the horizon, but it grows deeper as she looks further up. She cranes her neck back, and sees a beautiful, sapphire sea. Even in the daytime, she can see the twin moons peering down at the world below. When she was a child, she, like so many people before her, thought they were the eyes of some great celestial beast. She was terrified every full moon, and would refuse to sleep unless it was in her father’s bed. Even with the curtains drawn, the moonlight would find its way across the room and under the covers, where it taunted her with nightmares.Many years have passed, but sometimes, she still wonders if they might blink back at her.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Nonbinary Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. The Strange Fires

The fires began Friday evening, and continued into the following week. They had been started in the mouth of the valley, and although Moth is a safe distance from the them, she can see the glow through her windows at night, and smell the smoke at all hours. She knows they’ve _been_ started, and not started on her own, because she received a letter in her PO Box on Sunday urging any witches of Primrose Town—of which she is one—to volunteer their services and aid the hunters with the controlled blaze.

Moth stares into the box, contemplating, as she folds the paper into a little square. Because she’s on the local witch register, she was sent this letter. The registrar clearly hadn’t been thinking when they sent it to her, specifically. At four foot ten and seven stone, a strong gust from the valley could blow her away. She almost doesn’t notice the lumpy envelope at the back of the box. She snatches it up, and with a ping of excitement, sees that the return address is her father’s.

She shuts the now-empty box and goes off to sit on a bench, where she tears open the envelope like a Solstice present. Along with the letter is a packet of stickers—a childish indulgence of hers—and a bag of candied nectar. She leans against the wall, sucks on a piece of candy, and reads the letter.

_Luna Moth -_

_Everyone’s been coming here asking for fireproofed sleighs and carts and all that. I don’t know how much you know about what’s been going on, but you should stay away from the valley. I was down there to make a delivery, and what I’ve seen rivals what happened in Gernal. I know I haven’t talked much about that, but it’s for a good reason. No matter how much the registrar needles you about coming down to volunteer, don’t go. There’s a reason so many Lilith have been showing up in town, and even they’re disgusted by the whole business. And those girls are pretty hard to squick out._

Moth balances the candy between her molars. So the ordeal has made its way even into her correspondence with home. She tucks her knees to her chest, and continues to read.

_If you’ve set your mind to going, however, don’t do it without pay. It’s not worth going down there, doing it for free. The goods and services you have to offer aren’t taken as seriously as someone like me, who runs a business. I don’t know why that is, if it’s because their goods aren’t always tangible, but don’t be afraid to barter with them. Or if you’ve got a friend who’s thinking of going, go with them to the registrar and argue on their behalf. In the meantime, fireproof your house. In these situations, it’s easy for a controlled blaze to get out of control. And fire is especially dangerous to you, so make sure you fireproof yourself as well._

_I know, I know, you already know. Worrying and reminding you of the obvious stuff is a ‘dad’ thing to do, though. And of course I’ve got to remind you that if there are any spells you don’t have or can’t make on your own, you can always come over or maybe talk to the local coven._

The rest of the letter is on a lighter note: news about a batch of horn seeds that have come in. Some regions use trees to make their carpentry and paper, but most use horn seeds: they are prolific, easy to care for, and sturdier than most wood. Among the seeds he received, there was one that is a rare rose color, and wouldn’t she like to come over and take a look? The letter is typed, but his signature at the end is in his own unreadable handwriting.

Moth shoves the letter into her bag, and walks out into the street. It is late summer, when the heat begins to cool, and the leaves are tinged with the faintest hint of gold. It’s not cold enough for her long skirt and shawl, so it’s not long before she becomes uncomfortably warm. Worst of all, she can’t just take off her shawl: her body beneath would turn heads.

So, she has two options: one, go straight home, fetch her broom, and fly across town to her father’s house. Her second option is to walk to his house from here, stopping along the way for a cold drink. She could easily get something to drink at home, but going to a cafe is what she considers fun and eventful. She hikes her bag, now slipping, back up to her shoulder, and tromps off down the sidewalk.

It is long past the sleepy hours of the morning, when Moth had come into town, and the sun now taunts her from its highest point in the sky. Her skin prickles from the heat. If the other townsfolk are bothered, they’re not showing it. They also haven’t dressed as self-consciously as she has. Maybe they’re just used to the heat. Moth herself had never adapted to the hot, dry Colithian summers on the coast.

Lost in thought, she bumps into a passerby, who she hastily apologizes to before hurrying along. Still, she cannot shake the feeling of everyone’s eyes on her. Her unseasonably heavy clothes weigh down on her, but she doesn’t stop until she’s several blocks from the post office.

By then, she has to stop to catch her breath. Her cloche feels like a hot towel over her head. Insects hum around her, and she realizes she has made it all the way to the fields. Out here, wagons and beaten-down trucks take the place of the shiny red trolley and bicycles. The first harvest is tall and, unlike the trees’ timid yellow, unabashedly gold. Farmhouses and silos speckle the horizon, and behind them, the distant snowy-capped mountains. From the west comes a rough breeze, carrying with it the salt of the ocean.

Moth stands in the middle of the path, sweating and panting under the solar noon. At least she rips off her cloche, freeing the thick, fuzzy antennae beneath. Much to her disgust, she spies salt crystals inside of her hat. She swipes her wrist across her forehead, and sees more of these crystals on her crimson sleeve. There really is no point in disrobing now, when she’s already this sweaty.

If only there were trees out here, to provide some shade as she walks. There is nary a cloud in sight, only a trail of smoke that cuts across the sky like charcoal, smudged across an otherwise beautiful canvas. She thinks of the flier, hiding insidiously inside her shoulder bag. Her father doesn’t need to tell her to avoid the valley, but she sure enjoys having his validation.

She’s fifteen minutes into her half-hour trip to the next set of woods, where her father lives, when a wagon headed the same way passes her by. She stops where she is and, feeling trapped in her own sweltering self, considers.

“Hey!” she suddenly calls, waving her arms, staggering along the dirt path. Her legs hurt. Her legs hurt so badly, and she has sweat enough to fill a jar of salt. “Excuse me! A ride, please!”

The farmer tugs on the reins, and his steeds—burly-looking beardogs—come to a halt. Moth makes her way over to him. The wagon is piled high with sweet-smelling hay, and she can imagine herself sitting comfortably on one of those bales. The farm himself is old, with eland horns and a full brush beard. He lifts the brim of his hat—there are two more sets of horns, nubs that dot his forehead—and peers down at this strange little creature who has flagged him down.

“Where to, little lady?” he asks, looking her up and down. His crinkled black eyes come to a rest on her antennae, which she pins to the side of her head. Once she tried doing that at a coven meeting to pass them off as white tufts of hair, only to wake up the next morning with a sore scalp. She’s already feeling it now from having hidden them under that hat.

“Myriad Glen.” She digs into her bag and retrieves the candied nectar. A few drops of that seems to be enough of a payment for him, and he jerks his head over his shoulder.

“Aight, then. Get in,” he says. She jogs around to the back and unlatches the ladder. She’s climbing up it before it even finishes dropping, and out of courtesy, she rolls it back up. Once she has settled in, the wagon jolts and moves forward again.

Moth positions herself behind a hay bale, and sighs with relief. There’s no reason he should be taking his eyes off the road, but she still feels compelled to stay out of his sight. With her bag on her lap, she watches the world roll by. Her vantage point allows her a view past the wheat and crops that feed Primrose Town, down into the rivered valley her father was so keen on her avoiding. She sees the source of the smoke trail: a ring-shaped blaze with charred trees in its center. The wind changes directions, and she coughs into her sleeve.

She looks out into the road and the fields, which recede as the beardogs plod forward. There is little shade to be had, but it’s better than walking the rest of the way. It’s one of those days that’s beautiful, as long as you’re in air-conditioned safety. Moth’s mouth feels dry and pasty, and she realizes she forgot to stop at that cafe. She’s thirsty enough to feel impatient about it, but all she can do is lean back and resign herself to the slow ride.

Everything aside, it really is a beautiful day. The sky starts eggshell blue at the horizon, but it grows deeper as she looks further up. She cranes her neck back, and sees a beautiful, sapphire sea. Even in the daytime, she can see the twin moons peering down at the world below. When she was a child, she, like so many people before her, thought they were the eyes of some great celestial beast. She was terrified every full moon, and would refuse to sleep unless it was in her father’s bed. Even with the curtains drawn, the moonlight would find its way across the room and under the covers, where it taunted her with nightmares.

Many years have passed, but sometimes, she still wonders if they might blink back at her. Are they looking down into the valley? What would they think? Her house is still very close to their temple. It’s why she moved all the way to the other glen in the first place, childhood fears be damned. She does not regret this decision, but she can see why her father would question it, and even be concerned. That fearfulness she had as a child did not end at an overactive imagination.

Her view of the sky is interrupted by a sudden covering of trees. They’ve reached the other side of the fields, she realizes, and it’s time to get out. While the wagon is still slowing down, Moth swings her legs over the side, and drops down. The impact sends a pained shiver up her thighs, but she recovers quickly and thanks the driver.

She doesn’t bother jamming the hat back over her dark hair. It feels so much better when it’s off, and there are more people like her around here. Enough that she isn’t stared at when she tromps down main street, sweaty and rumpled as she is. Her relief is shot, however, when she sees heavy foot traffic in and around her father’s carpentry. Normally a modest establishment, sandwiched between two small businesses, recent events have led to a surge of customers. Moth balks at the idea of trying to get through the front door, and opts for circling to the back. This requires going back to the start of the street, but it’s a detour she’s willing to take.

It’s quieter, if not more pungent here, with only trash cans and ambiguously stray cats getting in her way. She stops to pet one, a split face tortoiseshell with pretty green eyes. It follows her all the way to the back of the carpentry, which she recognizes for its sawdusty steps and lone trash bin. It’s all personal trash from their—or rather, his—house. Her father deigns to throw out any work material, even if it’s just scraps.

The back door leads into a tiny foyer, about the size of the powder room on the second floor, and through there is the workshop. All manner of scents accost her at once: the heady liquor scent of treated bone, sickly floral, spiced wood, a honeyed aroma that makes her mouth water. In a typical, fatherly fashion, bundles of material sit in barrels and on shelves, with the biggest of them propped against the wall. Several of her father’s employees are working at the counters, so busy that they haven’t noticed the young woman’s unexpected return.

Moth feasts her eyes on her childhood haunt, a place that only an artisan would allow their child to roam. She remembers being taught the difference between ‘bone’ and ‘horn’: the plants they come from are similar, almost identical. It’s the difference between the iris and the pupil, the inside and outside of an ear. If bones are trees, then horns are flowers. She does not have the luxury of pondering over scraps in a cardboard box, though: she has to get upstairs and away from all this dust. And away she goes, leaving a trail of dust behind her.


	2. The Cat: Comedian, Familiar, Matchmaker

Moth, for reasons she can’t explain, has always loved being alone upstairs while listening to people talk down below. As a child, she loved eavesdropping on her father and his employees, even about business topics she was too young to understand. Her hearing had never been sharp, though, no thanks to the Rot she had contracted as a child. Downstairs, she can’t make out a single word above the whir of machines.

The first thing she does is rush to her childhood room in search of clean clothes. In the spirit of wanting to visit every now and then, she had left a third of her wardrobe behind. Today calls for a short-sleeved sundress, which she is happy to swap her heavy clothes for. When she drops her skirt and blouse to the floor, however, she notices faint red marks around where her corset is. Her second pair of arms have gone purple beneath their white fluff.

Her wings, having been constrained since she got dressed, spring forth on their own. Her back muscles ache and sting with each twitch of the thin chitin.

First thing’s first: she needs to get her arms out of the corset. This specific kind is designed to keep her second pair of arms buckled behind her back. A shawl, long in the back, covers the resulting lump and makes her look like any other Colithian. The drawback is that taking it off hurts like crazy. She sucks in a nervous breath as she undoes the buckles, using her first pair of arms to steady the second pair. The first time she had worn this, she was a teenager, and had simply let her arms fall from their restraints without holding them first. She had cried for an hour, thinking that she’d never be able to move them again.

There’s a thin sheen of sweat around her waist where the stiff leather had been, making her camisole stick unpleasantly to her skin. The arms themselves are swollen and numb, but after bending and stretching them, she feels the blood flow return to them.

Oh, the things she does for beauty. Or, in this case, to keep people from staring.

She looks in the full-length mirror on her closet door, and sees a strange, sweaty creature staring back. There’s a very thin layer of feathery fluff from her neck to her collarbone, more on her arms, and nowhere else. Her wingspan is twice that of her arms, and her antennae flick to and fro to pick up any little noise.

All the layers, hats, and corsets in the world can’t hide the truth: she’s a moth, through and through.

The sundress is a lot more forgiving for someone like her: it has two sets of sleeves, and a lovely lace pattern at the back to accentuate her wings. She twirls around in the mirror, and smiles at herself. It’s too exposing for her to feel comfortable wearing in public, but at home, she looks like a little doll in scalloped mint fabric. It should be fine, as long as she doesn’t go to the front of house.

She spins one more time, and the skirt flares above her knees. She sees something that makes her stop, and frown.

“Oh, no.” Moth groans when she sees a crack running down her thigh, stopping just above her knee. She puts weight on her right leg, and squints to see if the bone splits any further. Not unlike testing a loose tooth, or picking a scab.

“My goodness. Maybe this is from stumbling down the steps this morning?” she mutters to herself. She lets her skirt flow back down, and bundles her dirty clothing from the floor. She’ll do some laundry, finally get that juice she wanted, and then see if her father isn’t busy.

The narrow laundry room is in disarray: evidence of a busy work week. Moth sucks on another nectar candy as she moves the dirty things into baskets, folds shirts, and collects pants off the floor. There are abandoned loads in both the washer and dryer, which Moth swiftly shifts along so there’s room for her things.

“He’s normally so neat,” she grouses to herself. “For knights’ sake. Alright, then.”

She’s so bothered by the mess that she doesn’t leave until everything is in its proper place. Her father can put away his own things, but she’ll at least fold them and put them into baskets, first. Her own outfit swims in the washing machine. Clothes prone to wrinkles are hung up on the rail between two cabinets. She opens one of them for detergent, and finds something curious: a box of cat treats. Could it have been that tortoiseshell from earlier?

The idea of having a cat visit entices her, so she takes the box with her to the kitchen. She sprinkles a few treats on the windowsill, gets her juice, and waits.

The tortoiseshell from the back street has at this point circled around to the main road, unflinching in its march through the late morning crowds. Like all cats, it has its favorite place, and that has recently become the carpentry. It makes its way up the lattice wall, ignoring the girl calling out to it. A cat, after all, is not one to take orders. Even if they come from its owner.

Moth is pleasantly surprised to see that the cat has deigned to visit her. Cats are fickle creatures, and some are more afraid of her extra appendages than others. She pushes the window up and open, carefully, afraid she’ll scare the tortoiseshell off. It hardly reacts to her, being distracted by the treats. It’s a little odd, actually. Even the friendliest cats are liable to bolt at sudden noises or the approach of a person—if she can be called that. She’s more of a bug. A giant bug. The window is faced towards the main street, which is busy now in the heat of noon, so she tucks her wings behind her.

She holds her finger out for the cat to sniff, and as it does so, its little nose twitches. Now that she has a closer look, she can better appreciate its coat: mottled brown-black with splashes of chestnut. It soon loses interest in her, but she is content to sit and watch it eat.

She idles, and at first she doesn’t hear the shouts coming from the crowd. Not until the woman’s voice is right under the window. Moth peers over the window box, and sees a witch standing by the store front. Her wide-brimmed hat hides her face, and she’s got her broom strapped to her back.

“Torte!” The cat sits straight up, and joins Moth in looking down at the street. The witch waves her hands at it. “Come here!”

The cat, much like a person would, turns its head away and yowls. Moth stifles a laugh, but the witch is much less amused.

“Now you’re just being a brat...” The witch sighs, and then addresses Moth. “Miss? Could you bring her down for me?”

“Oh? Um, ah...” Moth stammers. Her first instinct is to shut the window, and run to the safety of her room. Taking the cat—Torte—downstairs would require her to pass through the workshop, which is fine, but the storefront she wants to avoid at all costs.

She sighs, and reaches for the cat. She’ll just go around the back of the building.

Torte has other ideas. Now she decides to behave like a normal cat, jumping out of reach and running along the ledge that wraps around the upper floor. Normally used for maintenance and carrier pigeons, it has now become the cat’s escape route.

Moth isn’t really thinking she she follows the cat out the window. She’s used to climbing in and around things. The temple is essentially a giant tree, so it’s only natural for her. The ledge is narrow, but she is small and could climb up a wall if need be.

“Wait! You don’t have to do _that_!” the witch cries. She follows Moth from the ground, with her broom now in hand.

“No, it’s fine,” Moth says, mostly to herself. The cat, taking no pity on her, prances further away and just out of reach. Moth edges after her, keeping all four of her arms against the wall. Down below, people are starting to stare. A teal blush spreads across her face, but to get back to the window, she’d have to edge backwards.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she reassures herself as she starts to do just that. The witch is coming up on her broom, and the cat is now trapped between the two of them. She takes a quivering step back, and her right leg gives out. There’s the audible splitting of bone, and she can’t recover her balance in time. Falling off the ledge takes a split second, and Moth doesn’t even have time to cry out. Someone below does it for her. The world goes by fast, but not so fast that she can’t properly fear for her life. For someone like her, a two story drop would be enough to break one of her arms, or her spine.

The impact never comes. Instead of solid ground, she lands in a pair of strong arms. Her face is buried in soft white fabric with a light floral scent, and a fluttering heartbeat beneath. There are sighs of relief from those who have stopped to see what’s happening, and, more audibly, short quick breaths. She cracks her eye open and sees a pair of eyes, wide as full moons and bright as lamps, staring back at her. The witch has caught her and is holding her close, wings and all. All of Moth’s limbs are unbroken and accounted for—well, except for her right leg. The prosthetic is the only part of her that actually made it to the ground, and an employee from the front of house is coming out to collect it.

“Luna!” The employee shouts, and Moth realizes it’s her father, calling out to her in concern. The witch lowers the both of them to the ground, somehow managing to keep her balance on the broom with just her legs.

Now that Moth has gotten a good look at the witch’s face, she feels her face heating up for a different reason. Her pitch black hair sweeps her shoulders, and freckles like white stars dot her night sky complexion. The tortoiseshell is sitting between the two points on her hat.

“I’m so sorry! It was my fault,” the witch apologizes to Moth’s father. “I asked her to help me catch my familiar.”

“Why are you apologizing? You just saved her life.” Her father puts an arm around Luna’s shoulder, helping her to stand on her remaining leg. “So that cat’s your familiar, huh? I thought she was just one of the local strays.”

“Oh, no. No. Torte’s not a stray. She’s just very...adventurous.” Any trace of informality has disappeared from the witch’s posture and voice. She seems a different person now, poised with the polite smile Moth is used to seeing from customer service workers.

Inside, it is bustling with customers as expected. With such little floor space, her father has improvised by hanging furniture, wheels, and selections of wood on the walls. The shelves are packed with bottles of polish, tools, and other accessories, which are slowly disappearing. At the register is a basket of handcrafted idols, more for decoration than worship.

The witch follows Moth and her father all the way to the back, as if she belonged there. This strikes Moth as strange, and it is stranger still that her father does not question this. He has always been strict about keeping customers away from the workshop, or the break room. While he fetches Moth’s spare chair, the witch sits herself on a cable spool and crosses her ankles.

“It’s quite the coincidence that we happened upon each other when we did,” the witch says with a pleasant smile. “I’m actually here to place a custom order.”

“Did you bring a form?”

“Yes.” The witch slides it across the table, as Moth is settling herself into her chair. She tests its mechanisms to make sure it’s in working order, and then pulls the crank until she’s at about standing level.

“I’ll make it,” Moth says, drawing the surprise of the other two.

“Really?” the witch’s surprise is of the pleasant variety. So much _pleasantry_ about her.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” says her father, sounding more skeptical. It has been, after all, a good many months since Moth has worked the equipment in the back.

“A broomstick,” the witch explains, beckoning Moth to take a look. It’s not uncommon for witches to have more than one, but her current one is in perfect working order. Moth skims over the sheet, before reading it more thoroughly. What strikes her is that she’s asking for bonewood: Navywood, with a silver engraving of a three-dimensional sigil around the handle. White horn husk bristles with a silver chain (the latter is to be provided by the client), a leather seat, and an exuberant price that only luxury magic goods have.

It’s standard practice for magic to be incorporated into carpentry, but wouldn’t she rather go to a specialty store?

Moth’s antennae stand on end when she imagines the work that will go into this. It could take days, nay, a week, for her to perfect this. And that’s with a coworker making the seat for her. She just doesn’t have the skill to pound the leather into place, no matter how good her upper body strength is.

There’s also the matter of payment. Though Moth is officially a priestess, she is also licensed as an artisan. That means that one hundred percent of the funds made from a custom order go directly to her. As an apprentice, she was working under supervision or even cooperating with her father, so the funds would be split 75-25. She’d be earning the full 5,000 shells from this, and the amount of things she could do with that makes her head spin. That’s twice her current life savings. She feels like she’s robbing her father blind with this, but she needs to make a living, too. Sweet Christ, _five thousand shells_.

“Will you do it?” the witch gives her a sugar-sweet smile. This is someone who can and will get what they want, no matter the cost. Moth feels the first pricks of distrust and anxiety, but she looks into those lamplight eyes immediately melts.

“Y-yes, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, what's the point if I *don't* make lamp jokes with my moth-fairy protagonist?


	3. Chapter 3

The woods weren’t always something to be scared of. As a child, she would happily tromp through the undergrowth while her father called out to her: stay where I can see you. There had been a pair of wellies she had coveted, displayed in a timeless little boutique that her father couldn’t afford to take her to. Nor were any of the shoes at the time made for someone with legs like hers, which had been modeled after the ones she lost in her foggy early childhood. There were no wellies or raincoats for little girls with a bug’s legs and four arms, but there were knit hats in a novelty store with fake antennae on them. A group of teenagers were trying them on and laughing while her father clicked his tongue in disgust and went back to looking at a shelf of foraging books and almanacs.

The woods at the edge of Primrose Town are part of a larger forest tucked around the entire eastern border of Colithia, further reinforced from the outside world by the Colithian-Dzashean Mountain Range. For centuries, the forest isolated Colithia from everyone else on the mega-continent, and it was given many names: the Sea of Trees. Citrusine. Salamander Forest. Primrose Town is technically inside the ‘Ribbon’, a stretch of the forest that has slithered across the country like an amiable snake, almost all the way to the western coastline.

“The forest is alive,” her father once said to her over a campfire. It was late autumn and he was taking something or another to a hunter who lived in the forest with their own apprentice, a little girl about Moth’s age. What was she doing in present day? Moth had been seven or eight and huddled against her father’s bosom as he regaled her with stories that, in adulthood, had led to her becoming the temple priestess.

“You weren’t born in this forest, but you belong to it in spirit as one of its fae. Everything you hear in here is the forest talking to you, the only way it can.” He craned his neck back to the starry sky. Its twin moons were in crescent, like a pair of sleeping eyes. He winks at her himself, and adds, “I think it stretched itself out to the coast, long ago, because it knew you’d be here one day.”

“Wow,” Moth had breathed. Ten years later, she would be binding her second pair of arms so she could go into town without being stared at. “Why didn’t it go into Luluto?”

“Would you go into someone else’s body?” he asked her, tweaking one of her ears.

“No! That’s so weird.” Moth squealed and tumbled off his lap when he tickled her sides. The next day they made it to the hunter’s cabin. Her father had sat with the hunter and painted the horns of his skull-mask-face while the hunter assembled whatever it was—a crossbow? A sled?—that had been brought to them. Moth doesn’t remember what they looked like under their hood, but she remembers her friend: black-haired, blue-eyed, not quite as white as Moth, whose fingertips and lips and nose are tinted blue as if she had just frozen to death.

Aelkajsf blood, her father had said in guttural Colithian when he had very first found her. She’s like the ice elementals. But wholly a fae-creature. What separated a fae from a witch from an elemental? What made Moth different from the little wolf girl she played with as a child, and the woman who walks beside her now with stars on her bare arms? Ophelie tilts her chin to the late afternoon sky just as her father had watched the stars all those years ago, lips played into a cute little bow of a smile that brings a teal flush to Moth’s cheeks.

“It’s beautiful here,” says Ophelie, even as she stops to shake a pebble out of her sandals.

“It sure is,” says Moth, still staring at the dimple on the corner of Ophelie’s mouth. There’s a dim star buttoned right where her skin indents. She wants to put her finger there, and is immediately feels depraved for thinking it. Ophelie has the charm of a silky black butterfly, one sudden movement away from fluttering out of her reach. Her social charms are like a coat that gets hung up as soon as she’s by herself: she folds up her proverbial wings and picks up a book. She jolts every time Moth drops something. She smiles at a silverfish that really has no business being this far from the nearest stream.

Moth tears her attention from her and frowns at her ‘shopping’ list. Even with everything written down so precisely, her mind is just _refusing_ to comprehend it. The beginning of a headache throbs in the right side of her head.

“We’re going to follow the stream, um...Upstream? The opposite of which the water flows, is that it?”

“Yes,” says Ophelie, “Against the current.”

Moth removes her boots—there are finally pairs being made for someone like her—and hops into the water. The hem of her dress is immediately soaked, and she hikes it up to her thighs. Ophelie exclaims, hurriedly pulls off her sandals, and wades in after her. A school of fish scatter when she comes near.

The cold water is a welcome repose in the summer heat, which persists even under the shade of the behemoth trees. Among them is a particularly large deciduous, cloaked with leaves in all manner of shapes. The stream divots from here, leading to a small lake in which the reflection of its silvery bark wavers like a dream. From there, through the glass-clear depths, another stream. Moth instinctively looks for the goddess statues standing their endless vigil at the entrance to the grotto. Her temple, coincidentally, is near the best foraging spots. Surely it is the blessing of the goddesses, wives said to reject any temple that didn’t also have her other half.

The stream declines slowly into a waterfall, giving the two ample time to leave, and for Ophelie to dry her feet. Moth surges forward through the knee-length grass, down a path she could walk in her sleep. The entrance of the grotto is all stone and moss, another blessing from the heat. While she waits for Ophelie to catch up, she kneels before the statues. Since she last tended to them, their white paint has chipped away, something she’ll need to remedy when she has the time. Still the green remains vivid on the Knight’s mask, carved in the likeness of a dragon-headed caterpillar. Their wings are draped over their shoulders, and two of their hands are clasped in front of them. The third holds a sword, and the fourth, the fire goddess’s hand. Her dress—Byzantium purple, she once heard a Lilith say—is like a bright flower, beckoning worshipers to her door. The Knight of Luluto, her protector. And yet she protects them as well, that being of the earth. Both possess equal strength, equal authority, equal love. Passing by the temple would be considered rude.

Moth bows her head and offers a silent prayer. Please let her find what she needs today. Thank you for your gifts. If she wanted to be ceremonious about it, she could go into the grotto proper and give each statue in _there_ a kiss as an offering. Priestesses, sometimes considered the brides of the gods, are the only ones allowed to do that. Ophelie is coming up behind her, though, and it’s improper to do her holy work with someone else watching. The grotto, and the inside of the tree, will have to wait.

“I didn’t know this was out here,” says Ophelie, slightly out of breath. Clearly she has spent more time on a broomstick than her own two feet. Her sandals hang from each hand, cute things with bows that are impractical for long hikes. The brim of her hat hangs languid over her flushed cheeks. “Wow.”

“I thought everyone knew about the temple,” Moth replies, taken aback. Ophelie shakes her head.

“I’m not allowed...I mean, we don’t have a choice, in the coven,” Ophelie admits with a shrug. She then walks right into the grotto. Her failure to acknowledge the statues past a cursory glance makes the hair on Moth’s arms bristle. If the fire goddess struck her down in this moment, she wouldn’t be surprised. But, no, Ophelie wanders along, sandals swinging in her hands, like a lost child.

Moth watches in disbelief. One time, a man came to the temple drunk. It was during the full moon gathering last fall. He had spilled some of his drink inside the grotto and a rock had fallen onto his head, giving him a concussion. In another instance, someone had cussed in the presence of the statues and was moments later bitten by a spider that had gotten into their sandal. The goddesses, the fire goddess in particular, had a temper that showed in wild candle flames, matches that burned too quickly and scorched fingers, and hot flashes that put people in bed for days. If someone acts in an untoward way, retaliation is immediate.

Ophelie begins to sing in a language Moth doesn’t understand, laughing at how her voice echoes in the caverns. A flower falls between the points on her hat, a little miracle that is usually reserved for Moth.

“I think they like you,” Moth whispers in awe.


	4. Chapter 4

They’ve just left the temple when a choking reek hits them, and Moth abruptly remembers the letter her father sent her, the day she met Ophelie. Anxiety pushes through her when she looks up and sees a curl of smoke above the treetops. Moth rushes back into the temple and begins to climb, only vaguely aware of Ophelie calling for her.

The first crawl-ways of the tree expand and contract like a throat, pushing Moth up until she’s just over the canopy. From here, she can see into the valley as easily as a clear stream.

The fire is not only controlled and contained, but _arranged_. It forms a wide circle with three smaller ones inside, connected by webs of flame. At the center of each circle are smaller fires, pupils of angry eyes.

It’s so close to the temple. The fur on Moth’s arms bristle when she sees her usual gathering site is a hair’s breadth away from being taken by the fire. The only explanation she has for not having sensed it earlier is that they’ve been using some kind of spell to mask the scent.

Moth inhales sharply. It had been a good, peaceful week, but she was bound to return to reality eventually.

Ophelie slowly circles the trunk on her broom, and when she catches sight of Moth, speeds up towards her. The two look out into the blaze in stunned silence.

“I thought it was just a blight they were dealing with,” Ophelie says after a long silence. Moth struggles to remember what, exactly, her father had written to her. “I mean, just a persistent fungus on the trees and all that. That’s what they told us at the coven.”

Moth feels the tree shiver beneath her splayed palm. “Do you think it’s EONS?” she ventures.

“If it is, then they’d have to level the whole forest!” Ophelie cries. One of the stars on her cheeks flares and burns out. This sudden outburst startles Moth; she had only ever seen the witch as calm and amiable.

In light of this, nothing they’ve heard about the fires makes any sense. To be honest? Moth isn’t sure she _wants_ to understand. She just wants to collect her crafting materials and go home. It will mean coming close to the magic circle, but she can risk that. Though the thought of the fire eating through her wings and fur makes her stomach turn. She knows the sensation of decaying flesh better than anyone should.

Ophelie lowers her broomstick to the ground, and Moth climbs down after her. The rest of the hike is quiet. Primrose Town, at the crest of the valley, is colorful and toy-sized. If they had chosen to walk at a higher elevation, they would’ve seen the ocean in the northwest, from which the rainstorms will come by summer’s end. The flood season will begin, and no matter the circumstances of the magic circles, they will be washed away.

Yet a magic fire is different from a naturally-started one. Its sudden extinguishing could be violent. Moth had fared well during past rainy seasons, but in light of this, she’s nervous.

She, of course, does not let this show. It has only now occurred to her that Ophelie has a lot going on in her head. While this may seem like common sense to everyone else, that other people have their own thoughts and worries, it always takes a little longer for Moth to see people as something other than part of the landscape. She has never expressed this curious detachment to anyone, what with feeling horrid about it every time she is made aware of this flaw. It is just another thing about herself to dislike.

And Ophelie...Moth brought her out into this dangerous place without seriously considering the consequences. She thought it’d just be a fun hike. It was supposed to be a hike.

The perimeter of the magic circle roars on the horizon of the bonewood orchard. Moth’s skin itches. Ophelie takes off her hat and fans her face, looking quite haggard compared to when they had been at the temple. Nary a tree has been disturbed by the flames, but it’s only a matter of time. If the hunters and witches are unable to contain their own magic, what will become of her gathering grounds? The surrounding grottos?

“Is this what we’re looking for?” Ophelie pants. She approaches Moth with an armful of fallen branches; the front of her dress is smeared with dirt. Moth’s mouth pops open in surprise.

“Ah, yes! We’ll only need to collect what has fallen—thank you ever so much, but I can carry those.” Moth takes the bones from Ophelie and tucks a bundle under each of her lower arms. They both spread out across the area in search of horns next, finding bushels of them cowering like children in the dry foliage. Moth picks as many as will fit in her skirt, now improvised as a pocket. It’s just her bad luck to forget to bring a basket.

It is not much longer before Ophelie returns to her. She has fashioned a basket out of light, and within lay horn seedlings, flowers, and other such trinkets of the woods. Something is scuttling inside. Moth dips her hand into the basket and comes out with a fuzzy little spider clinging to her fingertips.

“Cute, huh? I found it near that holy well.” Ophelie points to a dome-shaped hut, barely visible under all the moss and tree roots covering it. They venture inside, and find that a whole host of crawling things have taken up residence in the dirt-and-stone walls. Moth sets down her things and sits by the water’s edge, only now realizing how exhausted she. They’ve spent the better part of the day going through the woods. Four miles, if she had to guess, and it will be the same distance back. Moth carefully detaches her legs and rubs her sore, stump thighs.

Ophelie sits by her at the water’s edge with a distant look in her eyes. The room is cool thanks to the water, and by virtue of having no windows to let in the sun or heat. The stone floor, though dirty, is comforting to rest her hands against. It’s evident that no one has been here for a long time, what with the lack of offerings. Moth can feel the spiritual residue of some long-departed deity, tapping against her arms like raindrops. It moves her to silence, to stillness.

Outside, the fires still burn. If they had come here a day too late, they might’ve had to go into the water. You’re really not supposed to go into the water of a holy well, but…They’d be fine as long as they kept their heads above the water. In the old days, they’d enchant wells to be resistant to any sort of water-breathing charm, and to suffocate any merfolk—not that there’d be any, so far inland, but the thought makes Moth shiver.

Ophelie tucks her hair behind her ear. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just sore.” Moth thinks about those who had been bound and cast into the water. What death awaited them in those depths, if not drowning? Why had they sealed the opening to the well so tightly? It pains her to wonder if what’s in the forest is worse. There is little difference between it and the ocean. The valley’s deepest point is not unlike a deep sea trench, in both depth and obscurity.

None of this plagues Ophelie. She crouches before Moth with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking up in that kindly, almost imploring way of hers. “You look like you’re in pain. Do you need me to use a healing spell?”

“If you’d like,” Moth says. Her stomach does a flip. Though she has only known Ophelie for a couple of weeks, she feels attached already. Such people enter one’s life on rare occasions, and even rarer do they stay for good. Some call them ‘kindred spirits’, and the only one Moth has known in the short several decades of her life has been her father. Though, that is a credit in and of itself: parents and children do not always get along.

Ophelie holds her hand over Moth’s lap, and touches the star on her forehead. Her eyes glow brighter than they had before, and then her hand follows suit. A shooting star falls from her fingertips, and lands on Moth’s legs. It’s the same sensation she has when she accidentally shocks herself, but without the pain. The soreness departs from her legs slowly and noticeably, as if she hadn’t just walked a day’s worth of woods.

“That’s amazing,” she gasps. “You did that so quickly, and with just your hands!”

“Well.” Ophelie withdraws her hand and looks away, sheepish. It goes unsaid how much work it took for her to reach that point. This leaves Moth with a sense of responsibility to take charge of the conversation, and of their little expedition, though it was by Ophelie’s initial requests that they came here in the first place. Moth reattaches her legs and goes through the motions of making sure all the nerves are in the right place.

Somewhere in the blaze is a loud _crack_ that sounds like a tree falling. Moth, still responsible, reaches for her things and suggests, “We should get going.”

The hike home is prefaced with a sense of urgency, brought on by the heat against their backs and the burdens in their arms. Several times Moth considers dropping some of her materials and making do with just what she needs, but something tells her she’ll not get to visit that particular grotto again. She had a lot of nightmares about this kind of scenario back home: the house burning or falling in an earthquake or being swallowed up by a flood, and her struggling to save whatever she could. The Lilith have spoken at length about Overworld’s relationship with material items, specifically the lack of shame surrounding them compared to other worlds, where ‘worldly’ is a frequent insult and materialism is frowned upon.

Overworld’s relationship with material possessions can be traced back to influences from the Aelkajsf, who believe that certain items of sentimental value carry a piece of someone’s soul. There’s something called the ‘skeljm’, a kind of scarf that is given to the Aelkajsf at birth and grants them the ability to fly, and in water, to become as a fish or a seal. Yet the word for ‘scarf’ is ‘munkiet’. _Skeljm_ has no Colithian equivalent. Why Moth doesn’t have one is one of the many details of her childhood that Luluto swallowed up. If the forest is the ocean, Luluto is the deep sea, or the far reaches of space—something imperceptible, the physical equivalent of being unable to discern a nightmare from a bad memory.

They make it past the temple and towards the forest shallows, then to the tame reef where Moth’s house sits, unaware of the tragedy yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most important part of making fictional words is going to wiktionary and making sure the word isn't accidentally something inoffensive in another language x_x


	5. Chapter 5

Moth spends a long time shut up in her house. What she saw in the forest had disturbed her, and her commission project is more than enough of an excuse to remain homebound. The routine is comforting: she wakes up and has some time for herself in the morning, dedicates her afternoon to work, and evenings to socializing. Granted, she only regularly interacted with her father and Ophelie, which she doesn’t mind.

While she whittles away at bonewood and bundles up the bristles, the world goes on without her. Slowly and surely, however, it starts hinting that it wants her to join in.

The first thing that draws her out of her hermitage is that Ophelie doesn’t show up to Moth’s house one day, when previously she had been as reliable as a new clock. Noon comes and goes without her, leaving Moth to anxiously smother the fluff that’s sticking up on her arms. Without even thinking, she had fixed up lunch for the both of them: runny eggs on sausage patties, two servings of spinach salad with tomato, biscuits and a can of gravy from the store. Rarely did she ever put such effort into cooking. Before Ophelie came into the picture, she would’ve stopped at the biscuits and gravy. A lot of quick, easy dishes that were high in protein, with a full dinner at her father’s on the occasional Saturday.

Moth sits there at the table, picking at her food and watching the phone with an uneasy feeling in her gut. This isn’t how the routine usually goes. The cool, rational part of her brain reasons that Ophelie is perfectly fine, that these things just happen. Moths, being solitary for the most part, don’t typically worry about these things.

She soaks up some egg yolk with a bit of meat and chews. It’s not that she’s worried about her fellow witch (she herself just barely qualifies as one). The disruption in her routine is what bothers her the most, to be honest, and she has the itching need to figure out why.

So Moth finishes her meal in uncomfortable silence, puts Ophelie’s share on a covered plate with a heating sigil scratched onto the bottom. She gets on her corset and stiff, wicker sun hat, puts a shawl around her shoulders, and steps out into the warm summer air. On any other day, she would’ve been in her workshop already, perhaps getting started on polishing or doing last-minute checks for uneven parts and splinters. She’s already in that particular mood artists get, that unique pull that draws many a person to their canvases, music stands, screens, and so forth. Her hands, especially her arms bound and hidden beneath her clothes, are itching to pick up the chisel and sanding block.

But she puts one foot in front of the other and keeps walking, until the urge, a taunt rubber band, finally snaps. She’s already on the path to Myriad Glen, and in any case, it takes a while just to get herself ready to go out. There’s no stopping her now.

In any case, it’s a beautiful day, warm enough that if she might break a sweat if she exerted herself. She hears the telltale sounds of of a strong breeze, but doesn’t feel it herself: the forest acts as a natural windbreaker that only the strongest of gusts can penetrate. The general absence of wind on the forest floor means that the many bugs and small animals crawling about are chiefly responsible for scattering pollen. Most casual hikers wouldn’t see these things just walking down the road, but Moth’s big, black eyes are apt to pick out the details in her environment. To her left, a twig cracks under the weight of a rabbit. There, on a low branch, a bright blue bird flits from blossom to blossom. It must be one of those late-blooming trees.

There’s a break in the trees, where a stream runs through. In the middle of the bridge, out in the open, Moth smells the faintest traces of smoke, carried by the wind. She furrows her brow and surges forward, into the cover of the trees.

When she reaches the field, she sees something very strange: tents. Lots of them, like the white sails of boats shuddering in a strong sea breeze. There are several women gathered around one, mostly identical with raven hair and porcelain skin. One has her sleeves rolled up, and even from a distance Moth can visibly see a black seam running up her arm. Their long black skirts flutter, and their voices carry in the wind. She is strongly reminded of a murder of crows.

They’re not actually crows, though, and Moth doesn’t feel entirely comfortable approaching them. The Lilith aren’t inherently dangerous, but there’s something about them that feels _off_. There are plenty of uncanny things about them, from their appearances to their magical abilities, but Moth has never been able to pinpoint what exactly it is that makes her queasy.

She keeps her head down and walks faster, but one of them steps into her path.

“Excuse me, but have you been near the Abyss?” The Lilith’s great height forces her to lean over. Moth feels patronized, but genuinely taken off guard.

“The what?” she asks stupidly, holding onto the sides of her hat. An errant bit of wicker digs into the side of her head.

“The Fire,” the Lilith clarifies. It’s only two words, but Moth understands that ‘fire’ was meant to be capitalized, and that it was being spoken of as if it was a fixed, permanent location. She feels compelled to answer, and immediately identifies this as some kind of social charm. It’s different from the ‘social lubricant’ kind of charm that Ophelie had used in their early interactions. This is the kind of magic that, if used improperly, could impair the recipient’s judgment. Moth’s antennae itch badly under her hat. She is reluctant to uncover them, but it’s necessary if she wants to resist this magic.

The Lilith’s mouth goes into an ‘O’ shape when Moth removes her sun hat. Then her face scrunches in a grimace, likely guilt, as the antennae then stick up and begin to glow. Moth maintains perfect eye contact and takes deep breaths until the magic is forced back and her discomfort evaporates.

“I’ve been, actually, I’m the priestess of the Knight’s Temple,” Moth says, drawing herself up to her full height of five foot nothing. “I’ve got no choice but to go there and check up on it.”

“Um.” The Lilith scratches behind her ear uneasily. “Then you’ve absolutely got to come inside the tent for a moment. You’ve got to be scanned for contaminants.”

“Contaminants?” Moth repeats, incredulous. “I’ve heard nothing of _contaminants_.” Now she’s starting to get angry. Here she is, clearly on her way to a social visit—holding a plate of food, for crying out loud—and here’s a Lilith trying to flex her authority. That’s not happening.

Moth is considering flaring her wings as an intimidation tactic, but is interrupted by the appearance of a second Lilith. This one is wearing sneakers beneath her tiered skirt, and a multitude of plastic beaded bracelets on both arms. Moth backs away defensively, but the woman puts her hands up in a ‘do no harm’ gesture.

The Lilith’s arms drop to her sides, and she addresses her nervous coworker. “What’s going on here?”

The other Lilith responds in a language Moth doesn’t recognize, and the two go back and forth for a bit. The first one crosses her arms, holding her elbows, and speaks rapidly with some breathlessness. Her bobbed hair sways as her gestures grow in intensity, until the second one says something in a calm but firm tone. Moth shifts her weight from one foot to another, growing increasingly frustrated. The whole exchange lasts maybe two minutes, but it feels like forever. She’s going to forget why she came out here at this rate.

The second Lilith turns to her. “Look. I’m really sorry about this. No one’s in trouble here, we’ve just got to scan everyone who passes through. We’ve detected some potentially harmful material in the smoke coming from the Abyss, and we just want to make sure no one gets hurt or sick from it.”

The Lilith’s voice could be compared to someone walking over gravel in hiking boots, and because that reminds Moth of her father, she is soothed a bit. She detects no magic persuasion, and reluctantly agrees to a quick scan—but she is not going inside the tent.

“Fair. Alright, just wait a minute and you’ll be on your way.” Both Lilith—Lilim?—retreat into the tent. The one who initially waylaid Moth doesn’t come back out, but she sees her peeking out from behind the tent flap like a pouting child. The second one returns with what looks like a bar code scanner at the grocer’s, but bulkier and less friendly. She points it in Moth’s general direction and works at a dial, all with her eyes fixed on the screen. The scanner beeps plaintively, and the Lilith exhales.

“Alright, you’re good to go,” she says.

Moth puts her hat back on, but before she goes, she asks, “What material were you scanning for, exactly?”

The Lilith’s answer scares her a little: “We don’t know yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like everything I'm writing for this story has been influenced by the natural disasters in the world. Anything to do with the illness 'EONS' was conceived before the pandemic, which is definitely going to influence how I write it now. And I think I started writing/publishing the story around the time the Australian wildfires were going on. By the end of the year I'll probably be writing a chapter about aliens, LOL. Anyway, as usual I'm doing bite-sized chapters because it's less overwhelming that way. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's harder for me to write original fiction than fanfiction because I get so self-conscious :( But I'm glad I finally updated this. I need to go easier on myself orz

Moth had never been deep enough into Myriad Glen to find out which one of the towering buildings of old belonged to the local coven. She didn’t even know its name, which was a testament to her hermetic nature. The idea of joining a coven had terrified her from the very beginning, and not just because she was self-conscious about her appearance. A coven implied prolonged socializing, having to make decisions as a group, and constantly having to read other people, a skill that she simply did not have. The constant reminders of her poor cooperation skills would be too much.

In Myriad Glen, she was the only fae around. The rest were somewhere in Luluto, but she had been separated from them too young and would be a stranger to them if she tried to go back. She was already a stranger, playing pretend at being a priestess and an artisan. That was something she occasionally thought about, even though her relationship with her father was as fine as could be.

That desire to run away into the wilderness is especially strong in this densely populated area. Past the merchant’s quarter, Moth feels adrift with her stuffy hat and her stiff corset and the stupid plate of food she thought to bring all the way out here. People are giving her looks, because her wings are uncovered and she’s sweating through her dress. That, compounded with the poor encounter with the Lilith out in the fields, grates at her nerves.

In a better mood, she would’ve better appreciated the coven when she finally found it. It’s one of the biggest buildings, polished blue-black with latticed windows, and a huge glass dome in the middle. The ornate sign over these doors announces it as the Atrium of Scholars, and witches from all walks of life—except fae—stream in and out the wide arched doors. As if the intimidating architecture wasn’t enough, a tall stone wall circles the perimeter. Beyond that, Moth assumes, are courtyards and other outdoor spaces for the coven to relax and study in private.

Moth, suddenly feeling sick, freezes in place. She came all this way for Ophelie, but this place is nothing like she has ever seen. How is she even going to find her among all these witches? Would she even recognize Ophelie outside of a familiar environment? The building is so big that she could literally be anywhere inside, if she’s in there at all.

She has to remind herself that she too is a witch, and though she may not belong to the coven, she is still allowed inside. Still, the only way she can think to enter is to sneak in like a thief. She falls into step with a group of older women, and being as small as she is, goes unnoticed all the way through the doors. She detaches herself from the group and finds herself in a foyer that looks more suited for a museum or even a palace than a coven. The rounded ceiling is covered with murals of the heavens, which are populated not only by celestial bodies but scholars of old. In the center of the room is a model of Overworld and its internal layers, rendered in glass. Moth approaches and reads the plaque: _‘Saya (300-1826), Union of Three Planes (1611), Cosmonite on Glass’_.

The coven must have top-notch security if they can safely keep cosmonite of all things right in the entrance. Moth looks at the marbled walls and wonders when it was all built. Was Union of Three Planes purchased long after it was created, or was it created specifically for the Atrium of Scholars? Moth deciding to ask Ophelie about it eases her anxiety a bit.

But that requires finding Ophelie first, and Moth is still carrying that plate, which automatically makes her stand out. Before anyone can stare at her too long, she dives into a hallway and out of sight.

* * *

Ophelie is on the fourth floor clinic, shadowing one the healers and wishing she were anywhere else. Although healing magic has made many advancements during the past decade, it will always require hands-on treatment and therefore exposure to any manner of disgusting things. Even sitting at the patient’s bedside, typing up notes for her senior, makes her stomach turn. There’s been some kind of anomaly showing up in patients’ blood work, something that looks like air bubbles or clouds of fungus.

So she keeps her head down and does her best not to look at the patient as they’re having blood drawn. All she has to do is listen to what the healer is telling her. It’s just her and this keyboard with its broken ‘M’ key that she can’t even replace because she ordered the wrong model by accident and she doesn’t trust herself to _not_ make the same mistake and waste another ten shells…

In short, she’s been having a terrible morning.

“Would you please take these to room 103?” the healer asks, which is a rhetorical question. Yes, Ophelie _will_ take the samples away, whether she wants to or not. With a demure nod, she tucks the keyboard under her arm and carries the tray out of the room. The white curtains surrounding each bed gives each sick or injured person some privacy, but the high ceiling keeps things from feeling too cramped—that’s what she thinks, at least. Even the standard nine foot ceiling rooms and corridors feel tight. She feels tight and cramped in her own body sometimes. Not an uncommon occurrence for Dark Matter, who evolved for the wide vacuum of space. Witches like her are supposed to be out there, not in here.

But then there’s Luna Moth, the fae girl. Luna makes her feel like a good stretch after a day of desk work. Like when she leaves the final layer of the atmosphere and sheds her physical form, or absorbing a supernova into her body: the little _crack-crack-pop_ of collapsing star matter. Ophelie feels like she’ll float right off the floor thinking about her. If only she had gotten the time to phone Luna and explain her absence.

The contaminated blood was still important enough for her to hold back her squeamishness. So many members of the coven had come home appearing fine, only to fall ill weeks later. Some of the less magically-inclined townsfolk had come down with the same affliction. All had been to the Abyss. Luna, from her knowledge, hadn’t been there. The presence of the Lilith didn’t help matters. Everyone’s heads got muzzy when they were around, which the Grand Witch explained as as a side effect of their filters. The filters were meant to keep the Lilith from divulging any sensitive information.

What kind of information? Ophelie and several other novice witches had asked, but of course the Grand Witch couldn’t know. Not even she could bypass the Liliths’ spells. Otherworld’s magic far exceeded anything Overworld could muster, much to everyone’s chagrin.

In any case, the Lilith had quickly devised a way to detect contaminants, and freely shared what technology the Overworlders could understand. Ophelie is grateful that they are cordial. The kind of magic they use could be devastating.

By this time, Ophelie has made it to room 101, where samples are registered and then taken to various points in the building. A  sign on the wall helpfully informs Ophelie that blood samples stay on this floor, live samples go to the basement, plant samples are on the second floor, and meteorological samples are on the third. She ignores the rest, and goes to put the tray on the counter.

“Thank you,” says the witch at the counter. She moves the tray to a slow-moving conveyor belt that rotates around the back of the room, to be collected by whoever needs it. Ophelie skips out and back to the clinic, where her superior has already moved on to the next patient. She sighs and puts her keyboard on her lap, ready to type up another report.

**Author's Note:**

> 'What happened to Knight of Luluto?' I didn't have a good magic system in place, and I hadn't written much world-building (I've only daydreamed extensively, which is hard to get down in a document). I'm writing this story to fix that problem.
> 
> Anyway, I'm writing this because I still want to write about bugs, but I want to do more than just Hollow Knight fanfiction. Also, I've overcome my arachnophobia enough that I can look at a picture of a tarantula without getting scared (still not entirely used to seeing them irl but I'll get there!). Also, moths are my favorite bugs, so I'm writing about that too. Maybe there will be horror later?? I don't know. I'll add more tags as I see fit.


End file.
